


I Got My Feelings Bruised By The Leader In Red

by nicar0x



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, but it all works out in the end, e has daddy issues, for once r is the oblivious one, minor discussion of alcoholism, pining!jolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:51:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6432565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicar0x/pseuds/nicar0x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras says some things he shouldn't, Grantaire has the World's Lowest Self-Esteem, and they both are emotionally constipated</p><p>Or, how Enjolras and Grantaire begin their relationship</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Got My Feelings Bruised By The Leader In Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short drabble about how ExR get together, keeping in line with canonical events and the nature of the times. The title comes from George Blagden's cover of "I Will Follow You Into The Dark," in which he changes the lyrics to make it about ExR and it is wonderful. This is my first time posting to AO3, so please consider mistakes kindly. Thank you for reading!
> 
> If you want to contact me you can do so on my tumblr @enjylocks

Enjolras couldn't remember how the argument started. All he knew was that Grantaire had walked out, leaving him blinking amidst a very confused and shocked Amis. He barely noticed the concerned glances from his friends, or the disappointment in Combeferre's eyes; all he could process at the moment was that Grantaire had walked out. In all of their heated arguments, that had never happened.

Enjolras had received yet another angry letter from his father that morning, causing him to be even more irritable than usual at the Amis’ meeting later that night. He had been looking for a fight, and Grantaire, as usual, had provided the perfect opportunity.

The difference was, this hadn’t been anything like the usual banter that both men secretly enjoyed (but would never admit). No, this argument had gotten loud and personal.

Useless.

The word was often used to describe Enjolras himself. From his father, it had always been a cold reminder that he was a constant disappointment to his family name. An inconvenience. From Grantaire, it had always been good-natured teasing, telling him that his endeavors were overly ambitious, but always with an undertone of admiration that let Enjolras know that the drunkard didn’t truly mean to mock him.

But not that night. In their most heated argument yet, Enjolras had spat back every one of his father’s criticisms with a harshness that even the man himself had never managed, all of it landing on Grantaire. Enjolras didn’t even have a chance to comprehend what he was saying (or, more accurately, shouting) before Grantaire was storming out the door, leaving behind a half-finished bottle of wine and a silence so deafening that the leader in red thought that he might go insane if he didn’t get out immediately.

“Enjolras.”

It was Courfeyrac who finally broke the silence.

“I—I just—“ Enjolras sputtered, his words lacking their usual charisma and falling pathetically from his lips in the quiet café.

“I know,” Courfeyrac supplied gently. Enjolras tried to manage a grateful smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Go after him. Make it right.”

Enjolras simply nodded, neither able to apologize for his outburst nor express gratitude for his friend’s understanding. On his way out the door, Jehan clasped his shoulder gently and gave him a concerned look.

Are you okay?

Enjolras nodded almost imperceptibly at the silent question in the boy’s eyes before continuing out the door. The same door out of which Grantaire had disappeared only moments before.

\----  
It didn’t take long before Enjolras spotted Grantaire’s lumbering form making its way down the empty street. He began jogging to catch up, but if the other man heard his boots pounding the cobblestone, he gave no indication. Not even when Enjolras fell into step astride him did Grantaire remove his gaze from the wet stones beneath their feet.

“Grantaire—“ Enjolras started, but was cut off by a rather loud scoff.

“Leave me be, Enjolras,” he pleaded, and the broken sound of his voice was almost enough to make him obey. Almost.

“No,” Enjolras stated simply, and if Grantaire had any further objections, he kept them to himself.

Enjolras, suddenly at a loss of what to say, walked with him in silence. What could he possibly say, that could make up for the way he had treated his friend? That wouldn’t sound like an empty apology?

The man in red heaved a great sigh as the pair approached what he recognized to be Grantaire’s building. He lived in the attic apartment above a pub, and while the location and state of his living quarters was far less than ideal, the rent was cheap and the alcohol was a mere flight of stairs away. This allowed, much to Enjolras’ chagrin, for the young alcoholic to indulge himself much more often that could possibly be considered healthy. Enjolras wracked his mind, trying and failing to put together a coherent thought that would convey just how sorry he was about the night’s events. Before he knew it, they were climbing the alley staircase that led to Grantaire’s apartment door.

“There, Enjolras. You can tell Joly or Courf or whoever sent you after me that I made it home safe. Now go,” Grantaire sounded unbelievably tired, and Enjolras found himself unable to leave quite yet.

“Nobody sent me, Grantaire,” he explained. “I wanted to apologize for the way I treated you tonight. The things I said—“

“Enjolras. Stop.” Grantaire’s voice sounded pained, and Enjolras resisted the urge to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, knowing that it would only make things worse. He wasn’t normally a very affectionate person, but seeing Grantaire in pain, and knowing that it was his fault, was almost too much to bear. “What are you doing?”

“I’m apologizing,” Enjolras answered, dumbfounded.

Grantaire scoffed. “You’ve never apologized to anyone in your life.” Enjolras tried not to be offended by that comment, especially since it was true. Grantaire, of all people would know that.

“Yes, well, I’ve also never treated a friend so badly in my life,” he replied, trying to sound more lighthearted than he felt.

“You consider me a friend?” Grantaire looked so vulnerable in that moment that Enjolras couldn’t resist any longer, pulling the taller man into a warm—but extremely awkward—hug. Grantaire was far too shocked to respond at first, but after a few seconds he carefully draped his arms around the other man.

“Grantaire, you have no idea, do you?” Enjolras muttered, more to himself than to the man he addressed.

Grantaire didn’t respond, but the tension that had been nearly palpable on the walk to Grantaire’s home had dissipated. Enjolras didn’t need an answer to know that he was forgiven, and he heaved a sigh of relief into his friend’s cravat, making him chuckle a bit. The sound was warm, and shook his whole body. He realized that perhaps he’d held on a bit too long, and took a step back from the embrace. He thought he saw disappointment cross Grantaire’s face, but it was gone too soon to tell.  
“Go home, Enjolras,” Grantaire said for the second time that night, but this time with a fond smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Enjolras liked it when he smiled, though he was sad to say that he was rarely the cause.

“Are you coming to the meeting next week?” Enjolras asked hopefully.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Grantaire responded.

Satisfied, Enjolras waved goodbye and descended the old staircase that led back into the street.

\----

As promised, Grantaire showed up at the next Amis meeting, and things seemed to be back to normal. Enjolras gave another rousing speech, Jehan flirted with Musichetta, Joly tapped his cane incessantly until Bahorel confiscated it, promising to give it back once he’d had a few drinks and settled down, and Grantaire sketched at his usual table in the corner, occasionally interrupting Enjolras to counter an argument or correct him. The two men had their usual banter, but it was much more relaxed this week, even more so than usual.

That is, until everyone starts to leave.

Grantaire, who had drunk a bit more than usual, was sleeping upright in his chair. Enjolras sighed sadly as he waved goodbye to Bossuet and Combeferre, who were the last of the Amis to leave the Musain. He hated watching his friend drink is life away.

As a rule, Enjolras avoided alcohol. He saw it as a distraction that turned even the most honorable people into drunken buffoons, and Grantaire’s love for the substance was what started their rivalry to begin with. Ever since Enjolras had confronted Grantaire about his drunkenness at the first Amis meeting, the other man had become much more obvious about his drinking, even though Enjolras did notice him drinking less recently. Clearly, that night was an outlier.

Once everyone else had gone, Enjolras approached Grantaire’s sleeping form and tried to gently shake him awake. The sleeping man did not stir.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras tried. No reaction. With a heavy sigh, Enjolras left his friend to sleep it off and began to gather up his papers, making a mental note to apologize to Musichetta for his friends’ mess on his way out. A voice coming from Grantaire’s corner stilled his movements.

“It’s not going to work, you know.”

Enjolras turned to face Grantaire.

“What won’t work?” he asked, though he already had an idea of what the other man was about to say.

“The ten of us, fighting an army. It won’t work.” Grantaire’s words were slurred, but Enjolras found that he didn’t mind the rasp in his voice that was a result of his grogginess. Even so, Enjolras was annoyed by the comment.

“Then don’t fight with us. If you’re so certain that we’ll fail, don’t be there when the time comes.” Enjolras’ voice lacked the harshness that his words may have carried. He didn’t want his friend to quit the Amis, but if he was right, and they were all doomed…he didn’t want Grantaire to die for a cause that he didn’t believe in. He didn’t want Grantaire to die at all.

“I didn’t realize you wanted me gone so bad,” Grantaire’s voice was joking, but his pained expression showed that he was hurt by Enjolras’ words. “You never turn down a soldier willing to fight for you. And I am. Willing, that is.”

“It’s not that I want you gone—“ Enjolras started, but Grantaire interrupted him.

“Yes, Enjolras, you do. You’ve said it yourself many times: ‘Grantaire, go home. You don’t contribute. You have nothing to offer the group. You don’t further the cause.’” Grantaire’s voice raised with every accusation, and Enjolras couldn’t take any more of his self-loathing.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loudly.

“I think I do,” Grantaire countered, “but please, O Fearless Leader, enlighten me.”

“I don’t want you to die, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, surprised by the desperation in his voice. “If you’re right, and I don’t think you are, but if we do die, I don’t want you to be there. I don’t want to have to watch the life drain from your eyes, or your blood stain the streets. I couldn’t handle it.” At this point, he had no control over the words leaving his mouth.

“But you could handle Bossuet’s, or Feuilly’s, or Jehan’s?”

Enjolras let out an exasperated groan, running his hands aggravatedly through his blond curls.

“You still don’t get it,” he said, almost too quiet to hear.

By now, both men were on their feet, facing each other in the middle of the room. Grantaire stood tall, hands balled into fists at his sides, remarkably sobered now. Enjolras’ shoulders slumped slightly, nothing like the proud leader he was moments before. Under Grantaire’s accusatory gaze, he felt smaller, less confident. The man standing before him had the power to break him, and he didn’t even know it. Had never tried.

“You don’t understand,” Enjolras continued. “You have so much to offer the world, more than being some schoolboy who died for a cause he didn’t believe in. You are an artist, a musician, an athlete—“

“And a drunk, as you so often remind me.”

“Would you just listen to me?” Enjolras snapped, immediately regretting it when Grantaire flinched slightly. “All I can offer this world are my beliefs, and I intend to fight for those beliefs until the day I die. You, Grantaire, you have so much more. That is why I yell at you. You are everything. Everyone can see it but you.” Grantaire stared, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, at Enjolras as he spoke.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said slowly, as if he were doing calculations in his mind, “what exactly are you saying?”

Good God, was he going to make Enjolras spell it out for him?

Rather than answering Grantaire’s question, he surged forward, grabbing him by the cravat and pulling his face down so their lips could meet. It was a heated kiss, and Enjolras poured everything he was feeling, the feelings he couldn’t put into words, feelings that he’d never dared to speak out loud, into Grantaire. When the two men finally broke apart, out of breath and filled with wonder, Grantaire was the first to speak.

“Apollo, you have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he laughed breathlessly.

Enjolras ran a shaking hand through his hair and grinned. “I might have an idea,” he admitted.

Grantaire’s face turned contemplative.

“What?” asked Enjolras, suddenly worried.

“You should smile more often, Apollo. It suits you.”

Enjolras chuckled in response. “I smile sometimes.”

“Not like that, you don’t,” Grantaire argued. “And I must say, I am loving the fact that I’m the cause.”

“Must all of our conversations turn to arguments?” Enjolras asked with mock exasperation, his joy betrayed by the grin that still lit up his face.

“If it earns me more kisses like that, Apollo, I’d gladly argue with you until my last breath.”

Enjolras laughed. “I should hope that arguments aren’t the only time I’m allowed to kiss you.”

Grantaire flushed, and Enjolras thought that he liked having such an effect on him.

“This has got to be the result of some wine-induced coma,” Grantaire mused.

“I can assure you, it isn’t,” said Enjolras. “Do you normally dream of me when you drink?”

Grantaire’s cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red, answering the question for him. Enjolras laughed again.

“Let’s talk more once we’re somewhere more private,” he suggested. At Grantaire’s amused look, he corrected himself, “I mean, where people won’t eavesdrop.”

Grantaire nodded solemnly, but his eyes still sparkled with joy.

“You know, my apartment is just a short walk from here,” he suggests.

“I know,” says Enjolras with a chuckle. “I walked you home last week.”

“Right,” grumbles Grantaire, “well, I was trying to be charming.”

“Sorry,” said Enjolras, embarrassed. “Shall we go then?”

“Anything you want, Apollo. I’d follow you anywhere.”

Enjolras may have been oblivious to Grantaire’s flirting, but he certainly didn’t miss the weight behind that statement. Grantaire would follow him into battle, perhaps even to death itself. It was a revelation that both excited and terrified Enjolras, but he decided to leave that worry for a better time, and instead followed Grantaire out of the Musain and down the familiar dark street.


End file.
